


Inches and Centimeters

by hazbinhearts



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Mentions of Murder, excessively long detailed scene about tailor measurements, i guess???? this is hazbin idk what you're expecting here bub, optional ambient music included in-line, vox has an electrical current that zaps anyone who touches him, well almost anyone.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27999105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazbinhearts/pseuds/hazbinhearts
Summary: Vox's tailor loses his measurements (and his life) in a tragic fire.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Inches and Centimeters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vol_ctrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vol_ctrl/gifts).



> The Vox depicted in this story is based on the fabulous [vol_crl's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vol_ctrl) beautiful take! I love this Vox with my WHOLE DARN HEART so I had to pay tribute. Please enjoy!!!

Power by proximity was something  _ everyone  _ craved. Vox had power. This meant that his time in Hell was spent finding countless ways to gracefully evade the hunger in greedy hands too eager to shake and shoulders aching to rub. 

It  _ also  _ meant that getting personally fitted for a suit was a very  _ dangerous affair. _

He had his own basic numbers virtually memorized by this point, able to freely shop how he pleased for what he desired. What he did not realize was how few numbers he ever had to keep in mind, when his favorite tailor had the  _ proper _ ones written down in a neat notebook,  _ the old-fashioned way _ , he said, putting a high value on the hand-done aspect of everything despite its inefficiency. Traditionalists had their place, and Vox respected that. Up until now, there had been no issues with this system: he called or visited the shopfront, placed an order, and it was delivered to his house in his exact fit each time. 

Key thing to remember: up until now.

Vox stood before the crumbling doorway of a fine shop where he had been a patron for the better part of some fifty odd years. Hands behind his back, screen set with a stony gaze, he could only watch the smoke curl up from the piles of rubble and charred black remains of a cooling heap that had once been a beautiful, familiar place. Great. Just fucking...great.

The sizzling, simmering anger had dissipated a few hours ago, when he’d first learned the dreadful news: not just that the only place he liked to get his apparel was up in flames, but that the suit in progress was quite literally reduced to ash. To say nothing of the very important black leather book containing all of the intricacies of his body’s measurements, which had been a terrible pain to get in the first place. The owner and sole proprietor of the venue had died along with it, so Vox could not even pry the numbers out of his backwards brain before he had the decency to expire.

Who didn’t keep  _ backups?  _ Digital, physical, whatever, information like that should have been preserved with great care. That he had allowed himself to feel complacent for so long was also concerning, but he would not make the same mistake twice. No, Vox would keep the numbers himself this time, he just needed to scope out an appropriate person for the job. Timeliness was of the essence, as he needed the special-order garment quite quickly with Rapture on the horizon and all those festivities to set in motion soon...it would be a task.

He wasn’t concerned. Throwing his weight around was what he did  _ best,  _ and he looked the best  _ doing _ it. This was just a pain in the ass he didn’t need right now, on top of everything else.

Vox did not have time to do much research. The following few hours were spent being driven all over the Pentagram looking for a place with a tailor that fit his needs. His requirements were simple: quick without sacrificing quality, and willing to essentially be bullied by an Overlord with a very demanding schedule of appearances throughout the year, some personal, some public. Oh, right: and non-conductive fabric. Just a little detail. Not big, really.

The Needle sounded more like a club to Vox than a clothier. He was skeptical as he pushed in the heavy black door and stepped inside, surveying the lobby. The air that registered in his systems was full and clean and dark. There was no other way to describe it but  _ dark _ . It smelled of fabric, of shoe polish and vaguely, something spiced. The tingling sensation on the inside of his nostrils when inhaling doses of clove or cinnamon had once delighted him, and a not-insignificant part of his soul ached when no similar stimulation occurred as he took it in now.

The shop was spacious, more mannequins than anything else, as Vox had come to expect of places that really only catered to bespoke needs. There was no great reason to showcase off-the-rack suits in large quantities for the cheap and eager masses. All of the furniture was dark wood, lined with moulding and fine attention to detail, but he hadn’t the time to appreciate that, nor the soft  [ music ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/48pspNx1wBGUVf6Ep1Ib7h?si=5hnobgdqTxSJbFKcWYUYlw) lilting in from the recessed ceiling speakers. 

But not a soul to be seen. Where in the hell was the shopkeep? Why wouldn’t anyone be manning the front at an hour like this? Just as Vox was about to call out in complaint, someone appeared.

From behind a thick velvet curtain that led to some back room behind the checkout counter came a butterfly in a fine black suit. A layer of variegated black and white fuzz covered the whole of his body, antennae bobbing as he moved calmly through the space. His large eyes blinked as he took in the Overlord only a few feet away, and he moved only into a professional sphere of personal space to engage with him.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t prepared for your visit, sir,” he said quickly, bowing at the waist. “To what do I owe the honor of serving you?”

Vox had to be grateful for  _ something _ , and he supposed if he had to pick right then, it’d be this guy’s manners.

“Hey bx-bz-buddy, popping in tx-tz-to see if you can help me ox-oz-out. My guy lx-lz-lost his shop, lookin’ for a new one.” Truth be told, he was sick of the song and dance of it already. He’d been at this for a while now, and each new interaction was proving so disappointing. “I’ll cut to the chx-chz-chase, yeah?” 

The associate nodded, because he was smarter than a sack of bricks and knew that any other answer would get his ass handed to him.

“Non-conductive fabric, nx-nz-need a three-piece four dx-dz-days from now, and I need to sx-sz-see samples of your work before I agree to ax-az-anything. I’m sure you understand.” He offered a slight widening of that toothy electric-blue grin at the butterfly. 

“I have plenty of samples for you, sir, and I can work with that turnaround. I’m limited on variety in conductive fabric, but I think I can find a supplier that may have what you’re looking for, if you’re willing to compromise here and there in whatever vision you have. May I show you around?”

“I don’t ex-ez-exactly  _ compromise _ , but let’s see wx-wz-what you’ve got.”

With a short nod of his monitor, Vox was led toward the fringes of the shop to inspect the examples of work for common customers to observe. The demon pointed out a few details, noted the specific reinforced stitches on the seams of each garment to promote longer staying power. He made certain to point out that they make adjustable garments for any distinguished individual with extra appendages, indicating hidden slots in fabric for things like tails or arms to be seamlessly pushed through or hidden at leisure. 

Vox tuned all that shit out. He was looking at the style, the cut and fit, all things that could be changed, but he had a specific  _ brand image  _ to maintain that he wanted to be sure this guy could replicate. While he droned on about stitchwork and crafting ensembles that held up to rain or sleet or acid insults, Vox was privately altering what stood before him draped on lifeless mannequins in his mind.

“Alright,” he cut the guy off there, but who cares. “So let’s tx-tz-talk fabric.”

Without more than that, the demon redirected to gesture for Vox to wait there while he left behind that velvet curtain again. No more than fifteen seconds later, he returned with a thick metal ring containing fabric choices and, from Vox’s perspective, it’s a plethora, so he has nothing to worry about.

That was, until the butterfly carefully flipped the ring’s contents around, and presented Vox with no more than fifteen shades of fabric. One of them was just straight  _ neoprene _ , which he’d not even be caught dead wearing. It looked to be that the remaining fabrics were all relatively stiff, and the four flexible,  _ normal _ fabrics, the kind he had been spoiled by, are in smoke grey, charcoal, a very loud electric pink and a muted, pastel yellow. He frowned a bit at the options and how narrow a window he had to choose from due to his request, and the demon associate quickly piped up to speak.

“Our supplier has access to several other colors, but I don’t keep the samples on hand for show since they’re a rare request. What colors were you looking for? I can likely tell you if we can order in your appropriate shade range.”

“Navy bx-bz-blue, solid. Bowtie with hx-hz-hexagons.” He said cooly, not wanting to show the flicker of relief in his camera-ready features for a moment there, when he’d explained.

“We can certainly do that for you.” The butterfly smiled gently. “Now, let’s get you sized and talk about fit.”

Right. Sizing. Vox’s expression was strained, but charming as ever, when he brought his hands out from behind his back at last and fixed his cufflinks in an idle fidget, while he spoke of the most difficult admission to this process.

“Ax-az-afraid that’s a little harder, bx-bz-buddy. You can’t get that close.”

The demon looked confused, perhaps about to respond by the shape of his mouth in the moment, opening to a question, but Vox cut him off with almost surgical precision.

“You’ll have to wx-wz-walk me through mx-mz-measuring myself.”

There was an obvious beat of drop-dead, disbelieving silence, as Vox waited with his nerves fried and his patience wafer-thin for the butterfly to do or say  _ anything _ so that he could get this over with. Whether ‘this’ was murder or fitting for a suit remained to be seen. That was the point, he needed the guy to open his mouth before he’d know.

“...Of course, sir,” he finally responded while reaching into his slacks to pull out a long yellow measuring tape. He held it out to Vox with a patient smile, and gestured with his other hand toward the opposite end of the shop. “Follow me?”

Was it really going to be that easy? No questions, not stammering, no frustration or confusion? ...Good. That was how it  _ ought _ to be. He took the tape in his usual way, approaching it from such an angle that there was no chance of even brief contact, and followed along with a puffed chest and a confident stride.

The butterfly demon led him behind another thick dark curtain, shut it ‘closed’ behind them, and effectively blocked them off from the rest of the shop. There were three mirrors to show Vox each angle he would be working with at any given moment, and instinctively, he kept his eyes from meeting his reflection in each one. 

He didn’t have to endure even peripheral tolerance for long, as at that moment, the demon who escorted him took a seat on a low stool located off of the platform about three feet away. He pulled out his phone for this task as well, further reassuring him that another  _ conveniently disastrous fire  _ would not make a mockery of all this draining effort.

“Just go ahead and stand on the platform, sir. We may have to run through some more than once to ensure an accurate fit, given that some require specific stretches of the tape in difficult-to-reach areas that might be hard to achieve on your own. It’s certainly not impossible, though-”

“I know.” Vox did not mean to snap, but this whole thing was fucking awful to endure, and he just wanted it done with. Proximity was a dangerous thing, and with this specific Overlord, that was not even limited to metaphor. He took no overwhelming  _ pleasure  _ in the consequence of unintentional action, no demented joy in ruining things he hadn’t meant to, despite what the common demon’s idea of power-hungry Overlords would have one think.

The demon guided him with quiet words, and while Vox became further agitated, he made every attempt to focus on completing each task without acknowledging his own shortcomings in his mirror images or in his personal struggles with making sure each measurement was taken just-so. He drew the tape around his chest and did his best not to ignore the small reminders the associate gave, recognizing that  _ he _ was the expert, not Vox, and that if he did not want to have this experience a third time, he’d do well to listen. Vox read out the number that the edge of the tape touched, made certain not to hold his chest too high, and moved on.

Neck circumference was taken next, and as he felt the smooth glide of the matte surface around his throat, he considered the idea of people that just...did this for one another, in Hell, where danger and lethality lurk around every corner. Wouldn’t it be so easy to convince a scorned paramour to visit a shop like this one, be fit for a suit, and then strangle them to their final breath here? These damn  _ mirrors _ , every angle reflected, regret in their eyes for trusting such an obvious trap; bold, black numbers counting down the seconds to their foolish demise against a backdrop of caution-stripe yellow.

“The next measurement we need is shoulder-to-shoulder. It’s taken from the back to get the appropriate width.”

A feeling of irritation bubbled in Vox’s chest as he was jerked from his considerations by the voice of the demon assisting him. This wasn’t his favorite pastime, exposing such a vulnerable and sensitive area to any old demon, and he prickled at the idea that he needed to do it at all. Of course, it wasn’t an  _ optional measurement _ , and so with a forceful hold on the reigns of this whole damn situation, he decided to take it in stride like every obstacle he’d faced so far.

With a small step, he turned his back to the butterfly and reached carefully around, settling the tape shoulder-to-shoulder across the back of his neck. A glaringly obvious bump in the tape became apparent as it slithered across. He said not a word, but the lesser sinner told him when it was aligned properly, only for the two of them to realize in that moment...Vox could not see the number himself. A tense silence rushed over the fitting room.

Vulnerability was not exactly Vox’s strong suit, but he also wasn’t wholly irrational. What had to be done, had to be done, and if he had to zap a few bugs on the way, so be it, right? Hopefully, this one would not make so stupid a mistake. It wasn’t  _ vanity _ that kept him from encouraging the warm touch of hands, after all.

“Come look, then,” He said, “Bx-bz-but don’t  _ touch _ .” He attempted to affect his tone with a little cheek for comfort, for ease to them both, but the seriousness of the statement was so potent that it was hardly worth the effort to have tried at all. 

Vox reluctantly turned his eyes to the mirrors to watch as the demon stood. He walked forward, and with every footfall, his current rattled with anxious energy. He could imagine it as a tangible, visible thing: jagged lines of sharp power, glowing and writhing in an erratic and deadly dance around every inch of his body, ready to lash out at the hapless Sinner that dared get too friendly. Despite the threat lingering in the air, the momentum of the act carried through, and at a distance too familiar for Vox to feel comfortable, he finally leaned in to read the number aloud. Much quicker than he had approached, he backed off and retreated to his stool to record the data on his phone.  _ Good _ .

Vox relaxed his arms and brought the tape back to his claws, looking down as he fit it through a couple of fingers, waiting for the next instruction. It was a paltry attempt at avoiding staring into the mirrors that mocked him, reminding him of not only his curse, but the situation he found himself in now and how horrifically uncomfortable it was for them  _ both _ . 

Arm length, bicep circumference, and wrist circumference passed without incident, easy enough things to take oneself. There was a hesitation that came from the butterfly demon once the data was recorded, a pause that lasted just long enough to press on his worn-thin patience, and it was some kind of dumb luck that it ended when it did, for he had been just about to snap. The demon rose to his feet and set down his phone, folding his hands in front of himself as he spoke tentatively.

“The next is for the length of your jacket, sir. From the back of the neck where you’d like the collar to begin, as far down as you’d like the end of it to be.” He gestured with a delicate, graceful hand to his own suit jacket to demonstrate against the side of his body. “I can help read the number this time, if you’d like.”

It was essential to take, in order to know where the end of the suit jacket would need to break. Two numbers were needed from this particular area: one for the coat, and one for the waistcoat, which would need to fall at a reasonable spot before his slacks. If either of these were too far ‘off’, the whole outfit would look damn near  _ oversized  _ or  _ shrunken _ . Vox knew this, even if he wasn’t a tailor, but it didn’t make any of this easier to swallow.

He chose not to respond, letting the silence speak for him as he stared  _ through  _ the butterfly in the mirror rather than  _ at _ him. The risk only grew with repeated exposure. Demons were creatures of comfort by nature, practically instinct, and often those comforts were what landed them here in the first place. By default, it was safer to assume that if he let someone take an inch for a measurement, they’d run headlong into a mile. While he wasn’t cursed to be so lethal as to kill on first brief contact, he did not trust a damned soul to keep it brief, nor did he trust  _ his own, betraying body _ to maintain the same rule and order it had kept for all these years. The entirety of Hell’s ‘structural integrity’ was only barely maintained by a downright sadistic King and his beau, after all.

He took the tape and draped it down his back, using his opposite hand to place where he wanted the line of his jacket to end, and held the instrument in place there. He was careful to keep it properly centered, accounting for the slight hike in fabric caused by his transistor, and held it utterly still to facilitate this interaction being  _ done with  _ as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, as he kept his head slightly bowed and stared at a spot on the floor, it did not go as quickly as he would have liked.

At least he was quicker to walk forward, though Vox wasn’t sure that was exactly a  _ good thing _ , as it displayed a potential level of  _ comfort _ or familiarity with this process that he had been trying to avoid. The butterfly came to a halt with one shiny shoe on the first step up toward the platform, bent his knee and leaned close to read the small print as he had said he would. Vox nearly held his breath, eyes sharp on the reflection before him, on that grotesque imitation of a  _ form _ he had been given in this pit. He silently willed the untamable current looping and circling his every inch and centimeter to be  _ quiet _ , for he swore he could hear its crackle as a cackle, menacing and maniacal and ready to ruin his day.

Before he could note the very slight shift in the butterfly’s shoulder that would have indicated an early warning sign of movement, it had happened: the idiot who was told not to touch,  _ touched _ . He hooked his finger around the side of the tape to scoot it into better alignment, and in doing so, had experienced a nastly little shock. With an obvious startled jump and a quick step back, Vox watched him recoil and hiss in surprise to be taken by the unpleasant sensation with no physical warning. 

Vox’s  _ own  _ reaction had been to step away and half-turn his torso around, alarmed and trying to put distance between himself and the victim of his terrible affliction. A half-word had formed on his lips, some syllable thrown together to try and dress up the moment, but its siblings had died on arrival, and it was left as a sound and not a sentiment at all. His eyes narrowed into a sharp glare shortly thereafter, to hide the genuine  _ worry _ and  _ fear  _ that had jumpstarted something in his chest. The tape forgotten and dropped to the floor, neither the Media Overlord nor the simple Sinner could move or speak for a time, as if frozen, trapped in the overshock of a too-intimate encounter.

“...You got the nx-nz-number, right?“ With a scoff, Vox took it upon himself, the ever-performing host, and bent to take the tape and look with thinly veiled disdain at the butterfly. With those words, he held open the door to continue their transaction and move on from a lesson he hoped was  _ well-learned. _

Stomach circumference, waistline, and hip measurements were easy enough, but Vox was growing more agitated by the minute. It felt like an agonizingly long time to just sit about and take measurements of himself. He did not enjoy this process, and it further frustrated him that it was an objectively  _ normal experience _ to have, by many other measures of man or demon. The stark contrast between his own remarkably painful punishment here in Hell and the life he lived so long ago, how he had done this even then…it served as a sore reminder.

At last, only inseam and thigh were to be taken. The final two. They were easy enough by comparison to some earlier measurements and when they had been accounted for, Vox was quick to step down off the platform and turn his back to those forsaken mirrors.

“Sx-sz-send them to me,” he said simply, then left the fitting room and walked briskly toward the door. He could feel the tension in his body, the sizzle of his own current lashing out against him for keeping him stuck in such a precarious, stifling situation as that one had been. “Tell me wx-wz-when you have the fabric in hx-hz-hand. We’ll go over cx-cz-cut and details later.”

It wasn’t until he arrived at his own front door that he realized he still had that length of measuring tape in his claws, practically crushed from the force of his grip; a reminder of all that was different now. 

A reminder of how  _ he  _ was different, now. 

What could it possibly say of him, that something so resembling a  _ chore  _ to others, was an outright  _ ordeal _ to Vox? Did the nerves he stifled with mind-numbing work and the spinning of a record from decades ago mean he was lesser? Did it mean he was stronger for overcoming these obstacles with a tightened spine of steel? 

What was the _measure_ of a man, anyway?

**Author's Note:**

> May or may not be a second chapter to this if I can work up the nerve, so...keep your eyes peeled?
> 
> Thank you again so much to [vol_crl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vol_ctrl%22) for inspiration and encouragement all along the way. Boss, I couldn't have done it without you! Your works and your attitudes, philosophies and friendship, inspire me every single day. I hope this little thing pays appropriate homage to the gorgeous arrangements of text you lay out for your audience- and your friends. You deserve all the happiness in the world.


End file.
